New Year's, Shmoo Year's

Last year's New Year's post ended by stating I was a damned Monkey's Uncle if you were gonna catch me on the record saying, "Well, at least things can't get any worse." I prophetically went on to say that I really had no hopes or horizon, so '08 was a big empty slate.

And guess what? '08 turned into a big empty slate.

As I lie here on the sofa overwhelmed by the Christmas cleaning, cramps, lingering nausea from some bug that crept through the house last week, and a mild itchy throat, I decided to roam around in the computer and landed upon a fartload of New Year's related entries: lists, pictures, predictions, resolutions. And I stare at them all with an even more increasing sense of nausea, realizing I did nothing in '08. And I didn't even have an excuse.

Maddy died February '07. So I think it was valid that the rest of '07 -- and hell, even the first little bit of '08 -- was spent trying to exist. Functioning. Getting out of bed. Circling through the endless litany of "firsts" without Maddy -- holidays, birthdays, memorial services. Family falling to wayside, births, pregnancy announcements. No wonder I didn't do anything.

But '08? I think I was supposed to do something. Create something. Decide something. Complete something meaningful. Just pick up the fucking phone already. I thought maybe after a year, I would think -- you know, just think -- about having another baby, make up a tidy pro/con list or something. To be honest, I really didn't think about it at all. I've tried to figure out how in hell's name I spent my '08 and here's what I've come up with:


-- I made it through one year without Maddy
-- I took two trips
-- I started writing on another blog
-- I barely avoided foot surgery
-- I oversaw the renovation of the back half of my house
-- I hosted two neighborhood parties
(well, three if you include the Dog Party)
-- um, and, uh, hmmm. Give me a sec.

Things, for the record, I did not do that I probably should have:

-- thought about having another baby, even if the answer was "Fuck no."
-- lost some weight. Some. Meaning, like, even 5 pounds.

Things I probably should do, but calling them "Resolutions" sorta makes it really daunting and takes the interest totally out of it for me:

-- get organized. My house, today notwithstanding, is neat but an organizational nightmare.
-- make a boatload of medical-related appointments. You know, things like, oh, the dentist.
-- lose weight. Seriously, this is just fucking depressing.
-- work on a few rooms in my house that I can tackle by myself.
-- think about -- what's that thing called again? You know, when you work? And someone sends you a check worth some money? That thing you were going to do when Maddy turned six months old, which if things had gone right would've landed on about August '07? Oh right, A JOB.

It's not like I haven't had time, it's that I've completely totally lacked interest. And like I said here, I can't think more than two weeks in advance. You know what I've thought about '09? Here it is in all it's champagne-sparkle: I have some appointments planned the first week. And Bella has a party on January 17th.

That's it.

That's what I think about '09. There is a big lot of nothing behind me, and big lot of nothing ahead of me, and it's just conspiring to depress the hell outta me today. On my horizon in '09, I go through another round of February dates. And then I turn 40. '09 sounds like a steaming pile thus far, and that's only through March. Frankly, I rather hate it already. Mind if I just sulk in this limbo week for a while longer? You think if I don't buy a calendar I can somehow deny '09's existence?

For some cruel reason we've already committed to going to two (two!) New Years' Parties (thankfully both within walking distance, because otherwise what's the point, yes?), and I'm now wondering how on earth I'm going to get through either with a straight face.

At least in '08 I didn't have a baby who died. And that's gotta count for something.

Christmas Day IM

me: sup

Julia: not much

me: so tell me if I should be insulted

Julia: haha
ok?

me: usually MIL sends a bazillion $ of gifts to Bella, something nice to [Mr. ABF], and a $10 something to me
so this year
Bella = bazillion $ of stuff
[Mr. ABF] = Kindle
Me = nothing
bwahahahaha

Julia: nice
why do you still talk to the old hag?
and what does [Mr. ABF] say?

me: I don't
hence = no present
I don't think [Mr. ABF] noticed
and I really don't want to fuck up anything he's got going there
I've sorta written the whole IL thing off as Not My Problem unless they do something to my husband or child

Julia: same here re:ILs

me: great relationship, eh

:: snip ::

me:
so get this
I asked my mom for PJs
me: exciting right?

Julia: it can be :)

me: and of all the millions of PJs she could've bought me
including those
she got me a pair of

wait for it

Julia: waiting

me: "Life is Good" Pj's

Julia: oh no

me: Bwahahahahahaha
sign of the apocalypse

Julia: well... ok... thinking broadly
if you get to spend the whole day in them

me: I'm so blogging this

Julia: with noone to bug you
endless supply of wine and coffee

me: yeah like that will ever happen

Julia: than maybe, on the microcosm level

me: it's all relative I suppose
Life will be good if they actually fit
I need to focus
I should go do something
I haven't showered yet

Julia: i just did

me: and people are showing up starting in 30

Julia: oy
go
run

me: running
ttyl

Julia: ttyl

O Christmas Tree

I've been trying to find time and wit to craft a just-so Christmas post, but time and wit are in short supply of late.

I think it started the weekend we went to chop down our tree -- almost three weeks ago now. We bundled up, loaded into the car, and drove out into the country to the farm where we got last year's tree. Last year, I suppose in some not-horribly-subtle Freudian attempt to over-compensate, we got a monster of a tree that barely snuck in under our 10+ foot ceiling in the family room, and was almost as wide. We began salivating as we drew near, and then we saw the sign: "Tree Farm Closed." We took the next right in order to turn around in an empty parking lot and our jaws collectively dropped: the Christmas tree farm? Was now a driving range.

Two farms later, we finally arrived home late that night with a suitable tree, to find a package from my dear SIL. It was an Angel ornament, for Maddy. It wasn't something I would ever buy myself, or would know existed because I would probably never even search it out. And the fact that someone did take time to locate it made me weep about as much as the overall memory itself. Bella hung it up.

There was the parking cop, who literally ran when she saw me parked illegally (returning a video to the library) so I started running, and she saw me and ran faster, and pulled out her pad to get my license number as I pulled out. A $41 bill arrived two days later. Merry Christmas, Philly! I just know there's some irony involving trying to return a video lest I pay a quarter over-due fee to a library in a city where they are currently being closed at a quick clip only to have to pay said city umbrella entity $41. But I leave the road map for you to decipher.

There was our cabinet maker, who was rear-ended bringing over our wood countertop. The top sailed out the back of his truck and through the plastic grill of the car behind him. Only a small nick in my counter, which I said I'd actually like to keep. Sort of takes the pressure off us when we go and fuck it up for the first time.

We had a small piece of marble installed in one area of the new kitchen for baking, and I guess it's appropriate that since I've been phoning in this area of the project, the install guys phoned it in as well. The piece was cut wrong, they jammed it in, warped my freezer cabinet right next to it, and our freezer hasn't worked since last Friday. Repair guy coming next Monday.

There was the double ear infection, the memorial service. Two kindergarten playdates and one parent interview.

And finally, our neighborhood holiday party, held here in our new kitchen, last Friday night. This is the party we inherited with the house, and which I thought for a brief moment last year and the one before might be my undoing. But I discovered last year it was the only thing that motivated me to get through December. I couldn't really bring myself to decorate for my family, but my neighbors? Hell ya. I stood, glowing, in my new kitchen (90% done) with a champagne cocktail in hand, and actually enjoyed myself a bit. And when we woke up Saturday morning, there was a sigh of relief that for me, the holiday was over.

I've had more -- well, I hate to call it "energy" given the fact that I could drop right now and sleep about 15 hours, but -- energy this year. I spent most of yesterday preparing baked goods for gifts and personal consumption and will go remove everything from the downstairs freezer and bake them at the conclusion of this post. I've managed not to be too horrifically Grinchy when Bella asks things like, "What if Santa forgets our house? What if he can't find it?" I think because I didn't send cards last year (or this for that matter) our card intake has dwindled considerably, and the ones with children stamped on the front somehow seem less poisonous.

A dear old friend suggested that I put all these snippets of my month into a profanity-laced "12 Days of Christmas" -- a brilliant idea!! -- but one I can't seem to wrap my brain around. I even had Day 5 -- can you believe I put on my 8-year-old antique engagement ring (which I wear on nice occasions on my right hand now and again but until recently wore daily), and somehow mashed a side flat so I couldn't take it off? The kind of thing that looks like I left it in a closed car door for a few hours, but honestly didn't discover it until I just woke up one morning? Mr. ABF, on the orders of the jeweler who made Maddy's bracelet, snipped it with wire cutters and pulled it off with pliers. I need to find a few moments to take it in to him where he promises to make it good as new. Er, old. (I actually have a nice fuzzy iPic of this but for some reason, blogger is not letting me resize my photos to anything other than GIFUCKINGNORMOUS. So use your imagination.)

The following graphic pretty much sums it up. And this was the second time, and there was no way we were moving on until we got a Holiday Card worthy photo.




May your Christmas not suck nearly as badly as you think it might!

Time of Year

Today Ms. G is remembering M three years later. Please remember with her.

Bilateral

I have learned not to expect anything, because things -- even memorial services -- will turn out differently than I imagined.

-- Me, a few days ago.

It started yesterday, Saturday, with a runny nose and the now-familiar cough. In a few short hours, Bella was writhing on the couch in agony, weeping, moaning, unable to sit still. My gut said "ear infection," but my brain . . . well. Bella just kept clutching her hair in tufts crying, "My head hurts!" There was fever. There was some throwing up. And why, WHY do these things happen on Saturday afternoon and not during weekday office hours? Why does the fire-alarm battery beep at 3 a.m. and not 10 a.m.? Why does the car always break down on vacation and not two blocks from your house?

And in my (I think) excusable, somewhat anxious state, I vacillated between "This is nothing, give her motrin, we can do this" and "Holy crap, better google the symptoms for that really awful shit that starts with an M and ends with -eningitis," and even got an after-hours nurse on the phone, just to double check my gut. She concurred, upped our pain-killer dosage, and wished me well.

This morning, first words from Bella's mouth after a broken night of sleep were "My ear hurts." Well! There we are. We lounged. Got her more pain-relief. She was hungry, daddy treated her by running to the bakery. And we finally got around to looking up an urgent care clinic a million miles away (topic for another post: NO URGENT CARE CLINICS IN AREA. Seriously, WTF? Has our system come to this? My mother was reminiscing about MY pediatrician driving in on a weekend, and unlocking the door and turning on the light to peer into my ear and write out a script for antibiotics. Them days are o-vuh) and decided we'd leisurely make our way out there for a check. Went to take off Bella's PJ's and discovered . . . .she was covered in a horrible red puffy rash.

Rash. Wasn't that a symptom the night nurse warned me about? Er, yes. Screw the trek to Urgent Care, off went the family to [Delivery Hospital] ER. I knew from the gos that they always have a ped resident on duty, and triage accordingly, and I knew from experience that if this hospital ever felt over in over their heads they wouldn't hesitate to send us to Children's. We were seen within minutes; rash was quickly written off as topical -- either fever or allergy related; and she was then found to have not one, but TWO ear infections. No wonder her head hurt.

Relieved as we were, this presented us with a small problem. And I don't mean losing a weekend we had intended to dedicate to shopping and decorating our house with. We had a candlelight ceremony to go to this evening, and it was clear Bella was in no shape to go. My aunt offered to stay with her, but we couldn't imagine leaving a weeping, moaning Bella with her -- for either of their sakes. So it was decided: Mr. ABF would stay home and light candles with Bella, I would go to the service at Children's with my aunt and uncle.

I always knew that having another child would mean shifts in logistics just like this; I could have never imagined them being this difficult if one child was dead.

Tonight, watching the names and slides slip across the screen, I wanted to remember them all. I don't know if that was some subconscious way of wanting to tell Mr. ABF exactly what I felt, how it went down, or if I just wanted to collect all of those children -- all of their names and faces and dates and hold them close. I should've felt desperately alone and torn, leaving a sick daughter at home to attend to my other one, but I was surprisingly clear. I held my candle high, I clutched my baggie of names.

I was not alone. Maddy, sadly, was not alone either.

I walked in my front door to find my husband had put Maddy's picture on our entry hall table and lit three candles. "I wanted three," piped in Bella. I put my scraps in a bowl next to the picture. I gave Bella a glow stick, and Mr. ABF the book of remembrances they hand out at the service.

Just like I attended a concert with one daughter, while my husband stayed home with the other. Except, not.

***

Maddy,

We're constantly amazed that you were only with us six days and have left such an overwhelming impression on our lives -- even now, almost two years later.

Much has changed. Your big sister asks about you now, now that she has the words and understanding. And it breaks our hearts, but also melts them. The nightmare that used to replay in our heads has softened a bit, as we simply try to remember and envision what a world with you in it would look like. We laugh now, we plan a little, we function rather well. We smile, we water your lilac without the wind being knocked out of us, we say s your name a bit less haltingly. We've moved beyond crying inconsolably to wondering how to answer the confounding question, "How many children do you have?" And that hasn't gotten easier. We still trip up, wondering when to let others into our life, into your life.

But much remains just as it was a year ago. Missing you still consumes us. You are still the strongest and most courageous person we know. Losing you still eats at our ability to hope and dream and wish. And one thing for certain hasn't changed: Please know, you are still loved, deeply, by all of us.

Mommy, Daddy, and Bella.

Scraps, Redux

A year ago I was grinding my teeth preparing for the candlelight service (Second Sunday in December, sponsored by the Compassionate Friends -- see sidebar candle for more info) at Children's Hospital. We never had a service for Maddy, so we view it as some sort of obligation to attend the ones the hospital offers us. The indoor one they hold biannually for the children who have died in the past six months was . . . .what's the word? Eviscerating? And I was promised that the December one, held outside, which honors any child who has died, no matter when, was much more freeing. That emotions, instead of sinking like a heavy, dirty, choking cloud from the end of a super-villain's umbrella, rose into the stary wintertime night sky, with the outlines of breath and the faint wisps of candlelight.

This is a popular service -- this year they will read 363 names -- and so they ask attendees to limit the number of tickets they hand out to six (including ourselves). Last year, we thought it would be nice to have support from both of our families: I asked my aunt and uncle to join us, and Mr. ABF asked his father and his father's wife.

The morning of, an overcast not-too-chilly December day with an expected high of 48 or so, my FIL in called to say they wouldn't be coming because it might rain.

I have felt alone in this journey, believe me. There is nothing so lonely as coming home from the hospital without your child. Knowing your child -- your child's body -- is lying somewhere, back there, by herself, in the cold. Feeling as though you are the supreme freak of nature: no one, repeat: no one, has a baby just up and die on them. You are the one. The number 1 on that side of the statistic, 1:whateverthehellbignumber. Your life stops, everyone else's moves on. No one gets you. No one speaks to you. Mothers in Bella's music class literally moved away from me when I told them what happened -- as though it was contagious.

But I'm not sure I felt as alone as I did a year ago on that December morning, knowing that people were deserting us, they were jumping off the ship. Up until now, the loneliness had been about me and my grief, and since I walked a fine line between wanting some acknowledgment for my state of shittiness and wanting to be left the hell alone, I let a lot of it go. But this was different. They weren't just giving us the heave-ho, they were screaming very loudly while deploying their life-vests: your daughter doesn't matter. She is not worth it. She is not even fucking worth a few hours of discomfort (and since when is a chilly night outside in December for an hour followed by hot chocolate uncomfortable? Do people not carol anymore?).

Alone.

But.

Before having these people give us the supreme fuck you, I had told my new friends in the computer -- the ones who understood because they were freaks and "1"'s just like me -- that I wanted to carry their children's names with me to the ceremony. I thought it would spread the load so to speak, and make my grief more diffuse and bearable. What they did, on the cold night, as I choked back tears of grief and anger, and clutched a plastic baggy containing a few dozens scraps of paper with names written on them, was made me less lonely.

I have learned not to expect anything, because things -- even memorial services -- will turn out differently than I imagined. This year, my aunt and uncle, without us initiating anything, asked if they could join us again. My FIL has remained comfortably dumb. And we will go, Mr. ABF, Bella, and I, and I hope again, my scraps. My names. Your names.

I would hate to forget anyone and this year I'm quite likely to, so please, leave me a comment and include the name of the child or children you'd like me to carry with me this Sunday. I will happily carry initials or "blogsafe" names. If you'd like me to carry a real name that you aren't public with, please email me, TashABF at gmail. They'll join the pile I already have going. When I come home, as per last year, they'll go into a bowl and I'll light a candle next to them every night until they get overwhelmed by Christmas paraphernalia. And then they'll get wrapped up and saved for next year.

Names. They matter. They're worth it. They help me. And this Sunday I want to honor all of the dead children I know.

Home

The brick and mortar kind. The ephemeral one you dream of, that lies within. Ghosts. Room allocation.

But no cleaning. Post up at Glow in the Woods.

Virtual Shower for Antigone!!

Imagine yourself entering the ultimate baby shower (really! Click on the envite and meet the lovely hostesses! See the other attendees!). . . No, I'm not talking a pepto-bismol explosion, or a light-blue dump-truck-pacifier-dripping afternoon. No pastels. No baby name contests. No stupid games about due dates. No need to feel like the biggest rainbow-painted elephant in the room because the room is full of technicolor elephants just like you. There's the most delicious cake you could imagine free of baby-esque decorations (unless you count overturned wine bottles and perhaps some four letter words running down the sides). There are lovely conversations about . . . how much things like this usually suck and made your blood pressure rise. How you usually toss out the invitation with a hard roll of the eyes before going to cry in the bathroom. And you all remember babies lost, and find a few moments to revel in babies found.

No. This shower is wonderful and full of snark and frostiness and good-old-fashioned macabre overtones:

It's Antigone's Virtual Shower!! Right here! On line! See? Welcome.

I know it's really fucking hard sometimes to get behind (fully behind) subsequent pregnancies in this corner of the 'verse. Really, I do. BELIEVE ME. But sometimes when the universe dumps an extra load of shit on someone already down, it's hard not to rally around them. And not only do I want Antigone's pregnancy to work out, I want her life to work out. She kinda deserves a good-feeling gifty-type shower-thingy anyways, baby notwithstanding, don't you think?

Because I'm a last-minute kinda gal, and an academic at heart, I always give books at showers. And I'm pleased to announce that this here, right here, marks the first time I have bought a mom and/or baby a gift since Maddy. Which is a big deal, I think. So here's the lineup that Antigone and Perseus will be receiving from the Awful household:


From Me:



I used to give this book to all the new moms -- until my kid died and theirs kept living. I'm glad to revive the tradition here. It's a delightfully snarky and hilarious and utterly practical book that I think will fit Antigone to a T. It's hard to resist a book with chapters like, "Child Labor: Not Just for the Third World!" and "Bedtime: Is Five-Thirty too Early?" It taught me that sometimes grandma can take a hike: put the video camera down, and just enjoy and be with the moment. It also taught me that a child gets enjoyment out of a martini shaker, too. Not as much as mommy perhaps, but sometimes small tasks can be fun for everyone. Truly a great life lesson.

***

From Mr. ABF:



We bought this stunningly illustrated book for Bella and it quickly became Mr. ABF's favorite. Mr. ABF's favorite story within changes and depends on where he is in his personal "journey" ("car wreck"?) -- like I suppose all things Zen should. We've found it comforting and thoughtful both before and after the great divide in our lives. Oh, and Bella finds Stillwater cute.

***

From Bella:



Pinning Bella's favorite book down is a tough endeavor. On any given night, her "favorite" could involve a young, Hispanic animal rescuer, a talking train, or god forbid, Barbie. I was told by a good friend who happens to have a PhD in library science that one should never deny a kid anything they want to read (well, you know, within reason -- and I don't think Barbie is quite obscene enough to warrant expulsion when she's off saving her sister and not complaining about math or throwing up her lunch), so I endulge and we do it all: the classics, the award winners, and the sheer and utter crap that stores peddle under the guise of children's literature. Right now it's the words and meaning I want her to focus on, and I have no doubt soon she'll have a filter and understand that there's great stuff out there, and then there's beach reading. And there's a time and place for all.

Where was I? Oh, Bella's favorite book. I thought about what book(s) she first really responded to, and I kept coming back to Sendak's "Night Kitchen" and "Where the Wild Things Are." I settled on "Night Kitchen" since she loved the little sound effects (from very early on she began interjecting the "Mama! Papa!" etc.), and eventually the recitation: "Milk in the Batter! Milk in the Batter!" And honestly I have no idea why this book was considered so controversial since Bella has never, ever, now at four years of age, asked me why Micky is naked, and at one point after our 10,000th read she said, "So, this is a dream, right mom?" And people thought this was nonsense? Hmph. Anyway, cheers Perseus.

***

From Maddy:



We tapped the Jon Muth well again the week Maddy was born, and decided to take this back to the hospital with us, and read it to her the week she was alive. Used to be because of this I couldn't make it through the story without sobbing. Not to mention it involves a hurt mother and saving a baby and, well, ugh. Tough. But it's beautiful, and Bella made me keep reading it despite the fact that I could barely finish, and now I can. The last line simply kills me: "That is why we are here." And I'm still trying to figure out how this relates to the child I originally read it to. I'm apparently destined to keep reading it until I figure it out. Perseus, hopefully someday you'll come to some conclusion on this issue yourself.

***

And finally, because Max, Buddy, Tucker, & Kirby insisted Sothis needed something as well:



A really lovely read narrated by Touche the dog, who can't quite understand the new dog, Jo, who doesn't have a tail and (egad!) goes inside the house. Charming. I know you don't get it either, Sothis, because really, why does she need another one of you? But you'll soon become fast friends and it will all make sense. Really it will.

***

And now for the fun party games! (You didn't think I'd let this go by without games, did you?)

The first three people to comment on their favorite book will have them included in my order -- from them, to Antigone and Perseus. One book per, please. My only stipulations are that they need to be available through the etail place named after the river that starts with an A (not a subsidiary, please!), and that they're respectful of both mama and baby. Antigone is not eligible. Quick quick! (Runs off to eat cake while people comment . . . . )

What Means This?

You know, I don't really buy into the whole Supreme Being sending Cosmic Signals bullshit. You know the drill by now: "If you've had 10 miscarriages, 14 failed IVF's, lost a tube, and your uterus is shaped like a muffler, maybe God doesn't want you to have babies." That kinda stuff.

However.

I'm getting the distinct impression that I'm missing some fairly major air-raid sirens, signal fires, red flashing lights, and concussion bombs.

First there was the whole shredded plantar fascia crap last fall that kept me from running for 6-7 months, and damn near face-planted me into surgery. I shrugged off that sign, worked my ass off, and yesterday went for a lovely 3.5 mile spin around the 'hood.

Came home, showered, gulped down lunch, and was running out the door to pick up Bella. Mr. ABF decided to come with as we were all headed to the library immediately following, and on the way out the door, he was telling me a delicious story about some friends of ours and how they swore in front of their 1.5 year old in the car. I turned around to look at Mr. ABF for the punch line, smile on my face already, stepped out the front door . . .

And turned my left ankle. Hard. Leaving my fucking house, I tell you.

It's not so bad that I can't hobble around on it, so I'm quietly thanking a year of rehab that focussed largely on strengthening my ankle and the muscle groups around it. But GODDAMMIT. There's a nice raquetball sized (and blue-colored) lump, and it hurts.

Which is leading me to question if there is in fact some all-mighty Diety who does not want me to run. In fact, this Diety does not want me to leave my house. I am apparently defying my destiny to sit on the couch for an eternity and bloat and become some high blood-pressure, obesity statistic. I don't know why I fight this god-given path of bon bons and daytime television and lumpy thighs and clogged arteries, but I do. And perhaps I should just succumb, and be with the lazy and out of shape.

Or maybe it's something else entirely:

On top of my now swollen ankle, Mr. ABF appears to have contracted pink eye. Which I find somewhat amusing seeing as usually these things spring from the child in the house, who remains blissfully clear-eyed (while she hacks up a lung), but I keep my chuckles to myself knowing full-well that in a mere 24 hours we will all be red, swollen, peering through gunky lids reaching for our appointed handtowels.

To make matters more interesting, my highly independent child who normally runs into school with nary a backward glance decided this morning she didn't want to go. Cue heartwrenching scene with her wrapped around my leg, screaming "Don't leave me!" while her teachers gave me the "What the fuck?" look. What the fuck indeed. I'm giving them 5 more minutes and then I fully expect that my now healthy child (who slept through the night with no coughing! Finally!) will have convinced someone that "she doesn't feel well" and they'll call and I'll go pick her up.

Tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, she has an IQ Test assessment meeting with a child psychologist which is REQUIRED for Kindergarten applications. I'm telling her a nice woman named J (who just happens to live close to an hour away during rush hour) wants to meet and play with her tomorrow morning. This should go over well.

Saturday a.m. she has the first of four interviews playdates, probably the most significant component in applying for Kindergarten. That is, if she doesn't have pink eye, and decides it's ok to unwind herself from my pants leg. This after filling the admissions people with an infinite well of stories on how independent and social our child is. Oh yes.

This week is not shaping up well at all, and I'm missing some signs here. I'm looking, and what I'm seeing is making me want to curl up in a ball and cry, and possibly throw myself into traffic. I'm looking up the significances in the Almighty Handbook, and the Almighty appears to be giving me -- and my family -- the middle finger. Well, fuck you, too.

Interpretations much appreciated.